


soldier on, achilles

by saernamaz



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Depression, M/M, Modern Era, hector killed patroclus and they deal with that fact, honestly thats all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24934093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saernamaz/pseuds/saernamaz
Summary: "hector had loved achilles, uncanny and carefree achilles. achilles had loved hector, grounding and quiet hector. patroclus lay between them, answered their touches and their kisses, praised them and joined them together."hector has killed patroclus. an accident, an instant of inattention and suddenly the world is empty. achilles grieves, condemns himself. hector thinks, face himself. achilles was his contrary and he loved him. hector was his contrary and he loved him.patroclus had been both contraries and the enabler of their love.
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Achilles/Hector/Patroclus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hector/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), if you squint
Kudos: 18





	soldier on, achilles

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuses for this camus propaganda

achilles was a dim figure haloed by the bright sun, green eyes devoid of any emotion as he watched the ashes gently drown in the ocean, again and again, the memory burning behind his eyes, mystical and hypnotic. he was but a shell of himself, people whispered around him, thinking he did not hearken. blithe and genial young man reduced to a volatile angered corpse roaming an earth he did not belong to, a roof or an empty street, self-destructive and in quest of an impromptu trial that would judge him for his greatest sin, that of not being to even protect the one he had loved more than himself. prideful, vain, arrogant achilles blamed himself for fate, as any man with too much esteem would. the emptiness in his chest was his, the dried tears on his cheeks were his, his grief was his, and the death was his too, it was his call that had placed patroclus in the grave.

hector observed him, unbroken and silent, knowing he was the cause of the downfall of a young god. fate, an accident, a trick of the moires, _murder_. people could call however they wished. he was passive as his car hit the young man again and again, the brakes so real and rough beneath his feet as the sky filled and echoed with screams and wails. quiet, then, an oppressive nothingness that threatened to choke him as he breathed in every silent glares, every silent gestures coming his way. achilles stared at him, intense and passionate, and his lips were red with the blood of the martyr, and Hector felt that he would choke on it as he drank it. _you took everything from me_. you took everything meaning from me. our lives are worth nothing without him there to ground us, he could him say, despite his lips never moving an inch. the tears in his eyes spoke for him.

patroclus had been loved, more than he had, by achilles who only loved with his whole being and ached just the same, by the rest of the school who saw him as a sensible presence and skilled genius, by hector’s own family who had met him only once and thought him a prime example of good education. but hector had never liked him, he whom had faced trials aplenty and came back unscorched and brighter still, he whom had everything a man could desire — strength, bravery, uncanny, intelligence, wills. the golden boy whose mere name brought adoration and fascination in every heart — and yet never appreciate them, took them as granted. between his prowesses and the warmth, had he even had time to think and feel, or was his life a succession of acts devoid of logic and purpose? hector wanted to shake the bloodied man on the asphalt and ask him what had been the meaning of his life, what would be the meaning of _his_ life.

achilles had loved patroclus because he had been like him, proud and unequaled, a paradox of well-spoken words and violent fights raging in the hallways and in his mind; hector had hated patroclus because he had been like him, linear and controlled, a succession of actions that determined his external shell and lost.

now achilles had to live with the burden of losing a part of himself that made him who he was. now hector had to live with the burden of losing a part of himself that made him who he was.

‘do you wish to kill me,’ he asked achilles once. green eyes met his, angry and aching, so hard that they were red with dilated. hector ached, craved another passion behind his eyes that would eat him as well.

‘i’m not you. i’m not a murderer.’

‘are you sure of that?’

silence. nothing. emptiness. ‘no.’

a simple truth.

 ~~(self)~~ reverential achilles facing his own hatred, facing his own reckless impulses of being hurt at his every whim. could this be counted as a murder? or simply the natural process of things? his foot toyed with the ledge, looking at the asphalt below, bloody, red, raw, abraded and crude. but no indulgence came for him, no lights, no spotlights. a god would not die silently. a follower would not either. chaos had to unravel, had to destroy everything in its wake for a star to burst and bring down galaxies with it, making the world collapse as it burned down. patroclus had been his god and his salvation, had brought pleasures and diversion, made him forget his condition and made him feel like divine in the making, powerful and admired.

‘has life always been so meaningless? have i been blind before?’ achilles asked, soft and yielding, on his knees before the altar.

‘yes,’ he answered. the man in front of him had freckles and sun kissed skin, gentle hands and blood drying beneath his nails. ‘but it’s okay. it does not have to have a meaning to be lived. move on, achilles. burn my corpse and throw yourself into the fury. clock yourself in beauty unknown and see the act of living as the journey. soldier on, achilles.’

the hurt was tenacious, awful, it ate his flesh and torn his organs apart. he felt death in a way, losing everything only to build everything back anew. a door opened behind him, suffocating, coating the air in the metallic smell of his heart bleeding raw. hector stood, impassive as ever since the fall, light at his fingertips as he reached forward for achilles. their hands met. a part of achilles wanted to hate him, despise him, make him hurt and cry. but as he looked into his eyes, he could only see patroclus, a part of him that had come before his death, and another that had came after. he looked like an hallucination made up by his sick brain. the contact of their palms pressed flush together felt logical and natural, a fateful thing, the natural progression that made the world spin.

‘i know your rage,’ one of them said.

‘ease it, then,’ the other answered.

the roof was wind-swept, tranquil. hands trailed over bodies, lips grazed lips. hector had loved achilles, uncanny and carefree achilles. achilles had loved hector, grounding and quiet hector. patroclus lay between them, answered their touches and their kisses, praised them and joined them together. loving was a danger, a poison and an ache, but the only one that made the journey feel less like a burden and more like a conquest, as you conquered the body and mind of your opponent. it filled you, burned you and scratched at your skin, made you moan, whine, sigh and scream, carefully and for an eternity. it made the weight of your life easier to carry, four hands gripping a shared life and fate, until you lost them and you felt how heavy life had been all along, the weight you had forgotten and hated and maybe craved in a final destructive act. love made you look at the absurd in the eye and say ‘i don’t care. i don’t want to reason, i want to feel and run the path ahead and never turn back’. it was a meaning seized, a masquerade and a camouflage, and you knew it. and you could not care. love did not have to be logical, did not have to answer to rules. love is the absurd, as death is, as illness is, as kindness is. if nothing had meaning, what would not be?

‘i love you,’ achilles said, breathless and blooming once again, a pink, juvenile flower showing its beauty in the face of spring, meaningless ethereality.

‘i love you too,’ hector whispered back, flushed and relaxed, free in front of the stars and the clouds, facing his first choice, his first abandon and irrational sun.

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly started writing it as a sort of real-literary piece and half way i just went crazy and wrote this instead
> 
> hector as the tragic hero whose life is just written for him, quiet and grounding, and craving a meaning and freedom, achilles as this wild untamed force of nature brought down with the weight of his own errors. together they're just complementaries and basically patroclus, whom had been the personification of love


End file.
